“I don’t know. Somehow, it was catchy. At some point, I started humming along.” Charity hummed the tune.
Unable to stop herself, Natasha joined in. She’s right. It is catchy.
“Then we went into a full-on round, me starting with ‘row’ as he’d started ‘gently’ . . . down my stream.”
The visual played out in Natasha’s mind, and then she imagined herself in the mix. Humping. Humming. “I’m almost afraid to ask, but what happened next?”
“That was it. He came. And I went.”
“Did he ask for your number?”
Charity’s drawn-out head shake and blasé face said it all. “Frankly, I’m relieved. I’ll stick with cracking the whip with my BDSM tribe and leave this gem to you.”
Standing, Natasha threw out a quick, “Thanks.”
Charity raised her voice. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
Looking around to be sure no one was watching, Natasha dropped her ass back into the seat and hissed, “I don’t owe you anything. Sounds like you got more than you were due . . . from Alex.”
“What he paid me isn’t even half of what you owe me.”
Natasha ignored her glare. “Please. You’re a whore. You’re used to getting fucked, and at least this time you had the privilege of being banged by one of the richest men in the world. If anything, you owe me. But let’s call it even. Unless you want me to drop a dime on you with Vice.”
Again, Natasha moved to head out, and this time, Charity didn’t stop her.
10
Natasha
Taking a low-level clerk job at DGI was easy enough when Natasha backed down her highest education level to a high school diploma. Although the work was well below the standards of her Ivy League education and family wealth, she wasn’t there to make ends meet.
In the two weeks since the wild and bizarre revelations by Charity, Natasha doubled down on her goal—to meet Alex Drake.
Spinning in her chair in her cubicle and staring at the banking app on her phone, she blew out a disappointed breath. Willing the few hundred dollars in her checking account to magically multiply wasn’t exactly a strategy. Time to catch his eye.
Her skintight skirts met the minimum length requirement of the DGI dress code in the company handbook. But they were totally wasted last week, as the busy CEO was out of town on business.
And even with him back in the office, the tycoon always surrounded himself with an entourage as he zipped to this meeting and that. Stalking a crazed workaholic killed her feet and her matrimonial buzz, but Natasha was getting closer . . . one epic fail at a time.
On more than one occasion, staging her way to accidentally bump into the boss reminded her of Thomas Edison’s quote about not failing ten thousand times, but successfully finding ten thousand ways that didn’t work.
So far, she’d found a couple. Literally two failures, and they were agonizing. I’m in it to win it, but I’m not committing to inventing a light bulb.
Natasha was so motivated, she could practically taste him. I mean “it.” Taste it. The money. The idea of tasting him couldn’t be separated in her mind from the various condiments he probably came with. Disgusted, she shuddered at the eventuality.
Attempt number one was so perfectly timed, it still perplexed her that it resulted in her first failure. With some approximation, she’d counted out twenty-three Drake-sized steps from the door leading from the executive parking deck to the lobby security desk. Stopping there every morning seemed to be his thing.
Chummy with the staff. Why bother?
Natasha’s plan was foolproof. In a routine choreographed only in her head, at step eighteen, she’d trip right into him, but save his cup of coffee—his choice executive accessory. With her body pressed into his, her breasts spilling over, and a shy bat of her eyes, she fully expected his gratitude would lead to a dinner invitation.
But she hadn’t anticipated that he’d stop, let alone back up, right at the perfect step. With nothing but his cup of coffee to catch her fall, she grabbed it on her way to toppling onto the security desk.
“Are you all right?” a low, gruff voice asked, filled with concern.
But it didn’t belong to Chairman Moneybags. It was the monstrously huge chief of security, fumbling to wipe the coffee from his desk who asked after her welfare.
Checking his watch, Alex barely stopped. “Fife, I’ll catch up with you later.”
Disappointed, Natasha watched her quarry head to his private elevator. Who better to take out her frustrations on than a man a few echelons beneath her?
“Someone really needs to check these floors. I could’ve broken my leg. Sued the whole damn company.” Reconsidering her statement, she took to limping halfway to the peon elevator. Just in case. Always have a Plan B.
Failed attempt number two was another issue in timing. Despite practicing the choreographed “trip” several times, she was intercepted by the hot Latin heartthrob who seemed to be fucking everywhere. The guy hung on Alex Drake like a much sexier second skin. Why can’t he be the billionaire?
Planning on intercepting another of Alex Drake’s afternoon routes, Natasha dressed that day in her flirtiest sheer white blouse classed up with a black lace bra beneath. Counting down with a three, two, one, she sprang full force from the snack room.
Rather than landing in the arms of Mr. Tall, Dark, and Wealthy, she smacked right into the hot, spicy, and ever so bite-worthy Mr. Robles.
Catching her stumbling body and dipping it like a dancer, he locked eyes with her in their impromptu tango as he asked, “Do you dance here often?”
For no reason at all, she giggled.
Inhaling as he held her, he took a deep whiff. “Chanel?”
Nodding, she stuttered, “Y-yes. It’s Mademoiselle.”
The moment was heaven. Paco’s eyes were kind and gentlemanly. His strength wasn’t obvious from the fit of his suit and lean physique. Yet he held her effortlessly in a prolonged dip, his arms wrapped around her.
In anticipation, she couldn’t help but check out his lips. God, he’s going to kiss me. Natasha’s eyes fell shut, and her willing lips parted.
“Any day, Mr. Robles.”
Alex’s irritated bark seemed to motivate Paco. Whisking her up and into a spin before releasing her, he was off, hurrying after the boss.
Private dance lessons are a must for the future Mrs. Drake.
Finally, in a stroke of luck, Natasha’s clerk duties gave her the break she needed—access to the executive floors, in particular, the office of the CEO. A small but heavy box needed to be delivered, and she snatched it from the hands of her coworker and took it to the fifty-second floor.
Having doublechecked her lipstick, hair, and bosom, she knocked. Then knocked again.
Nothing.
Not bumping into the elusive billionaire was fine. She’d make the most of her big break. Or break-in. The door was locked, but her access card would work. Clerks had access for deliveries.
One swipe, and the door unlocked. Peeking in, Natasha found the office was empty.
Confident that if anyone caught her—especially Alex Drake himself—the box in her hand was all the excuse she needed to justify her presence there.